It was a cool summer evening in June when Hannibal waited for the lights to be switched off. He didn't know how long it would last, but it couldn't possibly be very long anymore. At ten o'clock the inmates would be left with only their imagination and hallucinations for company, often resulting in chaotic nightshifts for the employees unlucky enough to run the business at night. It was something Hannibal had never experienced in its fullest, but of which he was sure his expectations couldn't be far from reality. At least he wasn't stuck with some hallucinating madman at his bedside, he always remembered. It was one of the few things he was truly grateful for. But being alone had his downsides too: he would always be plagued with a feeling of intense loneliness at night, the feeling always accompanied by the longing for his beloved Will Graham to keep him company, to soothe him when loneliness struck ever so mercilessly. The upside - the only one he could think of, quite frankly - was that he had endless amounts of time to do as he pleased.
Well... "as he pleased" wasn't exactly the right term.
Seconds ticked by as Hannibal stared at the spot on his metal desk where his beloved clock had once been. He had been robbed of the thing when Chilton decided that the clock gave him too much "control". It was a term that couldn't have been more misused than in that sentence, but it did scare the man into taking away Hannibal's last bit of security: a time-keeping device.
Speaking of Frederick: the an had been acting fairly odd lately, as if trying to hold in amused laughter whenever face to face with the former psychiatrist. Up until that afternoon, Hannibal had been left to winder whatever the hell was making the man act so strangely. When it was finally revealed, it took an astonishing amount of mental strength not to smash the ill-fated man face first into the metal desk or the wall. When Frederick started mocking the situation, he wasn't just playing a stupid game, but also a dangerous one.
As it turned out, Hannibal had been talking in his sleep, always about the same situation, always about the same kind of assault, or so Frederick had claimed. Hannibal could confirm that nightmares had been so common in his trauma-laced youth that he didn't even bother remembering them, but that their frequency had lessened in time. Yet he didn't bother undertaking action when they returned. The nightmares had been about Sir Lecter, Hannibal's abusive father. In his sleep Hannibal would always beg for a certain for of assault to stop, and when the request remained unfulfilled - something it would always be in the cannibal's nightmares - the begging would transform slowly into sobbing.
In the morning, all would be well again.
When Frederick mockingly asked whether or not the man was going insane, he received an angry look, making him decide to go on with the next equally mocking question: with whom had Hannibal the Cannibal spent the night apart from his father?
Hannibal would only mention Alana, nobody else was retrieved from the seemingly endless archive that was Hannibal's mind. It wasn't as if there weren't any other names, it was just that there was no desire in Hannibal for his "beloved" former colleague to know. What was the value of knowing anyway?
How unusual... footsteps accompanied the rhythmic tapping of a cane. The louse had probably come down here solely to rub the man's past in his face, to mock him a bit more. He would be allowed to, Hannibal told himself. Hannibal wouldn't fight it for Frederick would mock him anyway, no matter what was done trying to stop him.
He put himself down and pretended to sleep in the hope of discouraging Frederick. He wouldn't even see the protest, Hannibal thought bitterly as Frederick entered the cell and sat himself on the bed, just aside the legs resting there.
'I know you are awake, Hanni', he said soothingly. The angry look he received caught him off guard for a moment, but then he started to stroke the cannibal's cheek. He was met with a back turning his way, followed by something that could only be interpreted as a softly growled 'Leave me alone.'
A sigh. Frederick had intended to be nice - for as far as that could be done in this situation - but he didn't like Hannibal's attitude in the least. He was bratty, bitchy even. So then he would be treated like one, for this was Frederick's game and it was to be played by Frederick's rules.
'Hey!' Frederick snapped angrily, forcing the other man to roll onto his back. 'We're playing my game and we're going to play it by my rules. By my rules, Daddy has the last word, so you'd better damn well do as you're told, you brat!'
That's what did the trick: Hannibal's eyes ceased to radiate anger. Instead that space became occupied with fear. To his delight, the fear made his eyes even more beautiful - large and with a distant shine of unshed tears. Nearly paralyzed with fear, he allowed Frederick to unzip his prison uniform. When it was demanded, he got up an, movements stiff as those of a wooden marionette. He stood motionless as Frederick removed his clothes. He didn't protest when he was pushed back down on the bed, ass on the edge, legs spread. Frederick only bothered to open his trousers and push them down.
Perhaps he didn't want Hannibal to see anything more than necessary.
With the tiniest amount of spit he lubed his surprisingly long and thick cock, the manner of it comparable to the way Hannibal remembered his father doing that. The only warning he got was Frederick's left hand possessively clamping onto his hip before the other hand guided the stiff cock to the cannibal's still unprepared hole. The man had to press his lips together to stifle a pained moan. Frederick wanted an acknowledgement of the pain, of his own dominance, Hannibal reminded himself. He told - begged himself not to allow Frederick that pleasure.
'Oh Hanni', Frederick muttered at the sight of it, holding still for a moment. 'Daddy likes hearing how good of a job he's doing. Don't you remember?'
What was there to remember?
'Daddy', Hannibal moaned when the cock inside him picked up speed. An irritated groan escaped Frederick's lips at the realization that Hannibal had gone on autopilot, and the actual man had retreated into his mental fortress as he did more often than not when in Frederick's presence. 'Oh Daddy, just like that', the now expressionless voice continued. Frederick knew that Sir Lecter would probably be satisfied with this, fucking into the young boy, but this time, it wouldn't be enough. Hannibal was to experience every single second to its fullest.
'Hanni', Frederick cooed for what seemed to be the thousandth time that encounter. When he wasn't met with any kind of response, he tried again, with more aggression this time. A slap in the face was enough to make the other man come to.
'Isn't it enough to lock me up and to violate me?' Hannibal whispered brokenly, a shiver evident in his voice. 'Have you pleasure but don't force me to be here. Go ahead, fuck me. Pound into me like you would a common street walker, but please just use my body, for more I can't take.' Too personal. too vulnerable. Hanniba knew it, and he knew it would be used against him someday sooner or later. That is just how the Baltimore State Hospital For The Criminally Insane works. That is how Frederick Chilton works. As if Frederick wouldn't jerk off to it in his office.
When Frederick pretended to be pensive about the request, Hannibal dared to hope that it would be fulfilled, but when the tiniest twitch of lips turned the by fate simplified featrues into an evil smirk, he feared the worst. That would soon be justified. As suggested, Frederick pounded into the other man like he would a whore, hard and deep and fast. Although Hannibal didn't bother offering any form of protest, he found his hands pinned above his head, held together by Frederick's right hand. The other still clamped onto his hip, tight enough to bruise.
This was the first time in over a decade that he was genuinely afraid of anyone, he then realized. Shame flooded him when he was once again confronted with the face of his violator: arrogant, deformed Frederick Chilton.
A single tear ran down his cheek after putting so much effort into escaping the fearful eye. The teardrop barely got the chance to get any furhter than the rim of Hannibal's eye before getting sweeped up by Frederick's greedy tongue. Its successors would face the same fate. Disappointment crept upon Frederick's features when no efforts were made to stop this tiny assault.
But soon his attention shifted down again, watching how his cock disappeared into Hannibal's beautifully tight heat.
Speaking of tight: everything within him tightened when his orgasm came. He would've loved to fuck on for a little while longer, but decided not to. More important things were to be dealt with in his office. Alana for example. She seemed to believe she could put herself in charge without a powerhungry Frederick trying to stop her.
Frederick nearly cried out when he finally came, thrusting through his lenthy orgasm as if trying to extract additional pleasure.
After pulling out of Hannibal's now gaping hole, he wiped his cock on the insides of Hannibal's tights, painting them with a mixture of red and white. When he considered his cock to be clean, he pulled up hhis pants and perfected his clothes. Without saying another word, he left the former psychiatrist alone, naked and trembling.
Only now Hannibal allowed himself to sob. He wouldn't allow Frederick the satisfaction of seeing it, even though the man had seen everything else already. But the tears weren't for the assault bestowed upon him by Frederick, nor fot those by his father, but for another. Another whose name wasn't retrieved from his mind. The man that had cost him his happiness in Lithuania: George Walker. Hannibal had been in a relationship with the man, or he had desired for it to be one. He had loved the man unconditionally with every single fiber in his body, but he wasn't capable of providing that what George desired. George had raped him as well, almost in the same amounts as his father had once done. He had beaten Hannibal and scolded him for every single thing he couldn't "provide". And yet he had loved the man, very much so. He had become dependent on George like he had with his father. He actually felt guilty when he left the man. With the last of his savings he rented a small apartment. Once settled, he needed money which he earned in the prostitution. He whored himself out to all that could afford him. He had been trained well, after all. All the while he had been studying to become that what he had Always wanted to be: psychiatrist. When he finally got his doctorates, he moved to Baltimore, hoping to forget his past. He also swore to never fall in love again - for nearly every bit of love he had ever know involved rape and violence - and that promise he kept, until Will Graham came along.
Hannibal would only notice that the lights had been switched off when the sobbing subsided, his otherwise so accurate mental time keeping device unsure whether it had been three minutes, three hours or much longer. He fet around to sit behind his desk, then picked up the drawings that rested upon the metal construction. He didn't actually need to see the drawings to know what they depicted.
The drawings depicted several people from his past. A few of them showed Alana, some of them drawn from memory, others based solely on fantasy. The latter included a drawing picturing Alana as his submissive lover. Although his thoughts regularly went to George, no drawings of him were made: Hannibal just wanted to forget all about him. The same went for Sir Lecter. Two of the drawings showed a temporary lover. If the decision had been Hannibal's to make, they would have spent a larger portion of their lives together, but social standards forced them apart. James was rich - and therefor important - and he couldn't spend the rest of his life with a prostitute, no matter how much they loved each other. But most pictures depicted Will Graham, sometimes as a dominant, sometimes a submissive. In every picture, Hannibal had imagined himself beside the younger man. His favorite drawing had nothing to do with dominance or submission, however. Instead it showed the two of them in the audience of an Italian opera. Because nobody payed any attention to the two of them, they found it permissable to kiss. That was the way Hannibal wanted things to be. If only life had granted him that wish.